


Quoting Nietzsche

by Salmagundi



Category: South Park
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Not AU, Other, Plague, Post-Apocalypse, Survival, Urban Fantasy, our zombies are different
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmagundi/pseuds/Salmagundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone has their theories on how the world will end.  The question we need to ask ourselves is what will happen after.  You never thought you'd be around long enough to wonder where you fit in, did you?"  </p><p>In the wake of disaster, the residents of South Park struggle to survive in an increasingly harsh world where death and betrayal take no sides. [Post-Apocalyptic Creek.  Not AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The World Before

 

  
Prologue - The World Before  
   
   
   
 _'You don't always think about what means the most to you.'_  
   
The television was a low drone in the background, almost drowned out by the sounds coming from the kitchen. Craig had never been much for Christmas, or for the trappings of Christmas. The materialistic aspect aside -- and Craig, for one, had no problem with the peddling of things or the buying of 'love' from family members -- it was just stupid how much concern was wasted over something that didn't really mean _anything_.  
   
The pair celebrated the holiday, yes, in their small way, but on their own terms. There was no need for a tree or a wreath. Tweek still refused to go anywhere near the chimney, even with a grate and a blazing fire.   Craig wasn't sure if it was because of his abiding fear of gnomes or whether it was the jolly man in red himself who had the blonde in such terror. It scarcely mattered.  
  
The _tradition_ mattered, not the holiday. It mattered because it was theirs; not given by anyone else. It was something carefully put together over the years. It was built from the first brush of his hand against the back of Tweek's wrist in the bitter cold. A warm cup of tea when he'd not been able to stomach the usual --  
  
 _'No more coffee, for God's sake, Tweek. Normal people drink other things too.'_  
  
\- a holiday marathon when there had been no one else.  
  
 _...And bah humbug on Token anyway for choosing Clyde to go with his family on their trip to Cancun..._  
  
They'd carved out something for themselves in pennies and stolen moments, something lasting, and the warmth of the mug Tweek pressed into his hands was nothing compared to the warmth of that slight brush of their fingers.  
  
"Are we watching Rudolph?" Tweek asked, though he didn't need to. They always did. It had been the first thing on television when the two of them had holed up together to spend Christmas without the rest of their usual quartet. Regardless of whether they watched it from the beginning or not, Christmas never really began for Craig until the song about misfits. Like some kind of Pavlovian response, there was simply no sense of anything resembling holiday spirit until the first notes hit the air.  
  
Fitting, perhaps.  
  
Tweek's fingers were on the remote, changing away from the movie that had been playing as background noise, flipping through the channels. For a moment there was a surrealness to the actions, a sense of distance that Craig couldn't quantify.  
  
Maybe Tweek felt it too, because his next long breath stretched out to eternity. One hand was still coiled around his mug, the grip tightening until his knuckles showed white. The same image was flashing across the channels, and the flickering of the stations reflected across their faces in stark oranges and reds.  
  
The remote slipped from Tweek's fingers to hit the edge of the coffee table.  
  
An accident. The words held no meaning. How could it be an accident? How could anything with such results ever be an accident?  
  
Tweek was silent beside him, and he could feel the vibrations of every shallow breath through the barest brush of their shoulders. The light of the television flushed the colour from Tweek's pale hair and skin, his eyes locked to the screen.  
  
That should have been the end of it, Craig thought, because as terrible a thing as this was -- _and so close?_ \-- Why the hell would they even have a place like that here, of all places; it was just news now. The reporter was standing in front of the remains of what had been a city, standing in her thick winter coat with the mic in her hand and talking about the tragedy of it all. Behind her there was fire in the distance, and who knew what else in the pervading smoke that crept along the ground.  
  
 _Turn it off_ , he almost said. He found himself reaching for the remote to do just that. The small, strangled noise in Tweek's throat brought him up short. His head snapped up again as he was in the midst of bending over to pick up the fallen remote, dark eyes going even darker.  
  
The blaze behind the reporter had dimmed, brightened, dimmed again -- a pulse as rhythmic as a beating heart -- and then...  
  
And then the world dissolved behind her.  
  
"Oh Jesus--" Jingle Bell Rock was still blaring on the CD player in the kitchen, the lights twinkling on the tree casting the room in greens and blues. The glow of the television was red, the reporter's face twisting in shock. Silent. Animalistic.  
  
 _-Static-_  
  
The red light wasn't gone; it was coming in through the window shutters now, dim and brightening. Craig was moving, but there was no thinking involved. His hand fisted in the back of Tweek's paisley reindeer sweater, dragging him toward the stairs. The coffee cup in Tweek's hands hit the ground with a sharp crack that was nearly obscured by the rattle of the walls with the nearing impact.  
  
Down the stairs, down to the ground floor.  
  
 _Down. Down. Down._  
  
Craig felt a moment of absurd gratitude toward Tweek's dad. He'd insisted they rent a house with a bomb cellar and hadn't budged. His paranoia was paying off now. Craig's nails tore on the cellar door, blood making his grip slick. Then Tweek was there, pulling on the rusted metal handle with a shriek that pierced through the din.  
  
The door opened a crack, opened wider, deep into the dark. It was a drop without fumbling for the ladder, but there was no time for care. The walls were heaving around them -- a living, dying thing -- and Craig discarded any attempt at caution, threw himself at Tweek and at the hungry depths of the earth below. The heavy metal door plunged shut behind them as they fell headlong into the dark.  
  
-  
  
Far away -- three blocks and a world away -- Stan hit the floor on elbows and knees, hands scraping at the rug as he tried to catch his balance. Sparky was by the window, barking, backlit red and casting a long black shadow into the room. The other shadows crept in around him, bleeding tendrils onto the floor.  
  
He couldn't move.  
  
Something struck him hard across the back of the head, fingers clutching in the collar of his jacket and almost cutting off his air. Spots blossomed in front of his eyes as a familiar voice grated in his ears.  
  
"Get up, Twerp!"  
  
Get up? And go where? Where could be safe from the grasping shadows creeping in all around? Sparky's barks had a hollow, tinny quality to them, and Stan almost shouted.  
  
 _No._  
  
 _Wait._  
  
 _We can't._  
  
Then he was shoved into the coat closet, the fabric cradling in around him. Shelley was warm, her breath wheezing in her throat. The door slammed shut behind them.  
  
"But Sparky--" Stan found his voice, far too late. There was a buzzing in the air, eclipsing Sparky's yapping, and a new sound tore from the dog's throat. In all his life, Stan had never heard anything like that before.  
  
"He was an old dog..." Shelley whispered as the piercing, gutteral noises emerged from the other room. As though that made it better, somehow. There was a hitch in her throat that might have been fear -- or something else. Stan couldn't remember the last time he'd hugged his sister, but he held close to her now, both of them edging away from the light creeping beneath the door.  
  
The howls stopped. _Thank god._  
  
It was the only vestige of gratitude he could muster as he buried his face against Shelley's shoulder and listened to the world come apart around them.  
  
-  
  
There were too many windows. It was the perfect view to an apocalypse. Kyle watched the creeping cloud moving toward them, feeling an odd sense of calm as it enveloped the far runways. There was a woman beside him, shrieking in his ear, and he batted her aside.  
  
"Come on, Bubulah," his mother's voice was low in his ear, and he reached out his hand to entwine with hers. "We've got to get your father." She didn't have to say why for Kyle to understand, like he understood the sudden chill in his veins. He was used to running hot. Hot in anger. Hot in passion. Yet somehow it felt like a familiar coat, this cold enveloping him.  
  
His father didn't have this... this calm in the face of disaster. _You do it because it has to be done..._ It was in the blood, that damned Jersey streak. Hot and cold. And his brother... well, his brother had something else.  
  
Sheila was snatching up her purse -- heavy purse... -- and they moved together toward the mens' room. Ike was outside the door, a flash of communication passing between them as Ike's eyes met his. Ike tore his rolling bag from Kyle's grip, slammed it to the ground. His foot came down atop it to brace it, hand grabbing the handle. Twisting.  
  
It came away with a crack, double sharp prongs of plastic.  
  
Kyle's fists clenched.  
  
Gerald emerged from the bathroom, still tucking in his shirt. He froze before them, eyes raking over their forms and a look of blank panic settling across his features.  
  
"Come on, Gerald." Was it Sheila's voice? His own? There was fear behind his father's eyes, and they all ignored it, yanking him into the center of their defensive circle and beginning toward the baggage area.  
  
"Ma'am, we have to ask you to remain here-" One of the security staff was saying, moving to intercept them, but his words were cut short as Sheila's purse struck him a stunning blow across the temple, sending him to the floor in a twitching heap. They walked past him without a second glance, save for Gerald who had the reek of terror clinging to him.  
  
They were Broflovskis. They would not be denied.  
  
Their trek to the doors felt like slow motion, beating aside their competitors until they emerged into the front where the taxis were still idling. Ike yanked a door open, dragging the cabbie out onto the pavement, and pushing Gerald into the driver's seat.  
  
" _Drive_ , Gerald." His mother intoned. A voice like judgement day.  
  
Kyle could see the questions beneath the surface - it was his father's way - but for once they were swallowed down. The key turned in the ignition, and Gerald's foot was heavy on the pedal as they sped away with doom nipping at their heels.  
  
-  
  
"We've had a good run, Mr. Dougie." Kevin surveyed the basement, the trappings of their starship still set up. The LED lights were still blinking. The radio beside the door was blaring the Emergency Broadcast Signal.  
  
They'd abandoned ship, the others.  
  
Granted, most of them had lost interest long before all of this. Grown up, grown apart and out of the need for games of dress up. But even those who had stayed were gone now. The first warnings had driven them away and outside.  
  
His loyal first officer was the only one left.  
  
"We're not done yet, Captain." The redhead's voice rang out and he stood straight and steady, more the Vulcan than Kevin was, pointy ears notwithstanding.  
  
How could he be so calm? And yet...  
  
And yet it was a comfort of sorts.  
  
"A captain goes down with his ship... but you don't have to stay." _You have a family of your own to be with, at the end._  
  
"It is my duty to stand beside you, Captain Stoley." And when Kevin tried to wrap his mind around those words, around how he felt about them, he felt Dougie's hand come to rest upon his shoulder. "And it is my privilege."  
  
"Thank you." He whispered, wishing he felt as confident in the face of the inevitable as his ship's captain persona would have. Was this his Koboyashi Maru, at last?  
  
Dougie was surely thinking the same thing. "Remember, Captain. How we face death is as important as how we face life." _And how would they choose?_ The words didn't need to be spoken to be understood.  
  
His throat tightened. "With dignity, Mr. Dougie."  
  
" _Together,_ Captain." A pause. "Kevin."  
  
Funny how much could be said in one word. The sirens on the radio were filling the whole world, a declaration of doom.  
  
"It is a good day to die." Dougie broke the other sounds with his own voice and Kevin almost laughed in grief and despair and gratitude.  
  
"Don't go all Klingon on me now..."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it."  
  
Kevin's eyes drifted to the windows high above, the red light of an early sunset filtering down on them. He imagined the stars twinkling bright and serene, raising a hand and pointing to a place he could not see. "Set a course, Mr. Dougie."  
  
The hand on his shoulder squeezed. "Where to, Captain?"  
  
Brighter now, their eyes pulling away from the windows. Beyond them didn't matter.  
  
 _"The second star to the right,"_ he whispered through the tightness in his throat. _" -and straight on til morning..."_  
  
-  
  
The world around Kenny was silent. Somewhere in it all, even the screaming and bickering of his family had fallen still. His feet made no sound on the stairs as he eased upward, nudging open the door to Karen's room. It was nearly swallowed in red light already, creeping in around the tattered curtain and stretching across the floor.  
  
It had been a while since he'd last seen his sister curled on the bed in such a fashion, knees drawn to her chest and her face buried against them. The small rasps of her breath were impossibly loud, jolting through him like physical blows. He was beside her in a heartbeat, his arms wrapping around her quivering shoulders. His voice was a familiar rasp, the tone he always dropped into back in the days of their childhood, when a cape and a mask could offer the reassurance that a mere older brother could not. "Come with me, Karen."  
  
"Angel...?" Her voice was faint. Too faint. Wobbly with shock, or perhaps fear. She looked up at him, eyes wide, the curves of her face cast in reds and pinks, her eyes reflecting the glow from outside. "Where are we going?"  
  
"Somewhere safe." It was to his credit that he could say the words not only with a straight face, but like he meant them. What was 'safe' when the world was coming to an end? He didn't have time to dwell on the small details, her hand sliding into his and squeezing, the way it had when they'd both been children lost in the wide world together.  
  
There were no other questions, just the patter of their feet against the floor and the yawning silence outside. The alarms were quiet now, leaving a tinny ringing in Kenny's ears as he made his way to the stairs. Small bits of dust and debris clung to his hair and the threadbare orange parka. He felt Karen's stumble and swept her up into his arms, tucked against his chest as he skidded down the stairs. The room was brightening, light bleeding in through every door, every window, every miniscule orifice.  
  
Nowhere to go... nowhere to hide...  
  
Nowhere big enough for two.  
  
The decision didn't hurt as much as he'd expected. There was only a feeling of dire calm to his motions as he manuevered his way through the debris, past the trappings of their pathetic tree and tattered stockings, toward the far end of the house. There was a cubby beneath the bathroom sink - he remembered nights huddled there, when the fighting had been too much, too loud... a time when the two of them could fit when curled close enough together - it looked woefully small now.  
  
"Stay here, Karen..." He murmured, voice thick and urgent as he disentangled himself from her desperate fingers, taking her hands in his own as she struggled to snatch hold of his jacket. "You have to stay here."   
  
"Kenny-" Her voice was a small, plaintive sound. That she still fit into the tiny space beneath the sink was a blessing... if a sad one. Coiled in upon herself, she looked too fragile... too breakable.  
  
He could never have considered situation this ending any other way.  
  
"You'll be safe here." He brushed his hand at her cheek, felt dampness against his fingertips, and willed his words to be true.  
  
 _Just this once._    He thought -- to God or the universe -- _You take everything from me, but you can give me this. This one thing..._ The only thing he needed.   The only goddamn thing that mattered anymore.  
  
Karen's hands were outstretched a moment longer, their eyes locked together, then she drew them back, tucked her arms against herself.   There was something solemn in her gaze.   Unyielding.   It was a strength he'd never seen so close to the surface.   She would be okay without him --   
  
 _And he knew already... he knew she would have to be without him_  
  
\-- and he felt a calm settle over him.   "I love you, Karen."   He wondered fleetingly why he'd never said it more and realised he hadn't needed to.   He'd said it so many times without ever needing to speak it aloud.  
  
"I love you, Angel." The words were soft but jolting.   He pushed the doors to the cubby shut.   Swallowed.   He could see his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he left the room.     
  
Blonde hair... tattered parka...  
  
 _Angel..._  
  
He shut the bathroom door behind himself, leaned his back against it and waited.   The red glow was burning the darkness away, brighter and brighter.   He turned his face toward it, toward the dust-streaked windows, and let the light consume him.  
   
-  
   
Craig's hands fumbled in the dark. There were supplies down here, crates that had been meticulously placed there by Mr. Tweak, containers of food and varied other items. None of those were foremost on his mind yet, not as he dug through them blindly. His hands finally found something useful, fingers scraping along the metal surface before he felt the slight rise of the switch against the pad of his thumb, flipping it.  
   
The flashlight guttered for a moment before turning on, a cold, stark beam in the dimness of the bomb cellar. By the light, he could see the stacks of crates rising far above the floor and disappearing into the blackness above. Every motion sent small pangs of pain through him... there were going to be bruises all along his side, but nothing was broken.  
   
"Tweek...?" He coughed slightly into the dusty chamber. "Are you okay?"  
   
Silence stretched out far too long for comfort, before he heard the faint rasp of a breath shuddering through the chamber. A soft moan rose from nearby, and Craig directed his flashlight there, the beam falling across the blonde's crumpled form where it lay half curled on the floor.  
   
There was a spreading darkness beneath Tweek's skinny frame, his blonde hair matted against his cheeks and the back of his head. His breathing came in shallow pants between his teeth. His eyes were shut. "Tweek?" He could see the twitching, the motion of Tweek's eyes moving behind his closed lids.  
   
"They're coming-" Tweek's voice was so faint he couldn't be sure of the words.   The touch against his arm didn't garner any reaction save the fitful trembling of Tweek's limbs.   "Oh Jesus... they're already coming..."  
   
"Who?"   Craig hadn't meant to ask but the words slipped free anyway. "Who's coming, Tweek?" And he shouldn't be moving Tweek, but there was nothing else to do.   Were there any doctors left?   Was there anything left?   Craig slid a hand gently beneath Tweek's nape, felt the slickness of blood-drenched hair against his palm. Slowly, he pulled the skinny blond closer, nudging Tweek's head to rest on his thigh.  
   
"Shadows." A distant, hollow word. A pause. "The man."  
   
 _Man? What man?_  
   
"The man in black." Had Craig asked out loud? He didn't think he had... "The man in black...   the beginning of the end." His voice had no inflection to it, eyes opening slowly to look hazily at some place past Craig, past the ceiling above them. Craig's gaze followed, but whatever Tweek was looking at was something Craig couldn't see. "The end of the beginning."  
   
Tweek's voice lapsed into silence. A cold silence. A frightening silence.  
   
"Tweek." His own voice cut through, with a note foreign to his ears. " _Tweek._ "  
   
The echo of his calls came back to him in mocking whispers, voices upon voices, fading away to become one with the dark.  



	2. 1

**\- 1 -**

 

  
_"The world is different now."_  
  
Tweek looked up, hands shaking as his father held out a mug to him. Coffee sloshed over his trembling fingers as he raised it to his mouth.  
  
"The world is a dangerous place, Tweek." His father's face was far up... too far away to see. He strained anyway, feeling the heat on his hands. His father was oblivious to his distress, "Things aren't always what they seem to be."  
  
He was on fire... the flames spreading from his hands up along his arms in ribbons of heat, a searing pain that went down to the bone. He looked up with desperate eyes, words on his lips that never met the air.  
  
His father's hand rested on the top of his head, carding through the strands of his hair "Drink your coffee." The cup rose to his lips, the heat of it scalding him even before he took a drink. His father's voice was steady in his ears. "Drink and remember what I told you, Tweek."  
  
It burned on his lips. Burned going down his throat. Burned deep into the recesses of his memory.  
  
-  
  
Tweek howled wordlessly into the night, body doubling over itself as he panted. Beside him, Craig shifted, sitting up. His hand brushed along Tweek's shoulder, an almost automatic response. His voice was soft, raspy with the dryness of the air. "What is it, Tweek?"  
  
The blonde barely registered the words for a moment, his fingers clenching and twitching in the thin fabric of the blanket that covered them. He still had a prickling sensation in his fingertips, memories of a searing heat that felt more pronounced in the stark pre-dawn cold. His breath fogged in the air, the precious moisture lingering in the lightening darkness. "Oh Jesus..." His voice was soft but it carried alarmingly in the quiet. He trembled a little, curling forward and raising his hands to card through his hair, tugging until the pale strands came out in his fingers.  
  
He could feel Craig stirring beside him, one hand brushing along his arm. If it had been anyone else, he would have jumped, perhaps even lashed out, but there was something soothing in the familiarity of those warm, calloused hands against his skin and he darted a quick glance toward Craig, feeling the trembling start to ease slightly. The pain in his fingers was fading into a tingle, the images of his dream jumbled already and starting to recede into a hazy memory. The thought of losing it jolted through him in a burst of terror and he turned, reaching for the notebook on the bedside table, swift scratchy letters sprawling aimlessly across the page in a desperate struggle to catch the fading remnants.  
  
Craig's eyes were on him, Tweek could feel the gaze, but the other man said nothing. The weight of a blanket settled across his shoulders still warm with the lingering heat of their bodies and he could spare only the faintest mumble of gratitude as he worked. It was all too much... too many images to fully capture in words. The details melted away like rain on the hard-packed ground, vanishing in the lingering dark.

He paused, finally, as the words stopped coming and the last remnants of them passed out of his reach. Looking down at the page he could see the descriptions, read them, but it was different now. Less immediate. It could have been anyone's dream.

If he hadn't known it was his own words, he might never have guessed it.

"Who was it?" Craig's voice was low, a rasp in the dark.

Tweek wasn't sure if his words would be a relief or a disappointment. _Not the usual dream._ He worried his lower lip between his teeth for a few long seconds. "My father."

He could feel Craig's slight jolt, but he didn't turn, easing out from beneath the sheets and padding toward the door, feeling the welcome cold of the air on his skin. The tips of his fingers scraped across the blinds. Craig was moving behind him, sliding to the edge of the bed. "He's gone, Tweek."

_No. No..._

Tweek's fingers clenched, the curves of his nails digging into his palms and the slim muscles in his body tensing. "You don't know that." There were more words but it was useless to say them. This was an old dance. They both knew it.

"Come back to bed." The words were a sigh and he closed his eyes against them and against the lightening haze beyond the blinds. But his feet knew the way across the floor and he curled into Craig's body, feeling familiar arms engulf him and moulding into a warmth that welcomed without consuming.

 

-

  
Dry. Hot. The sun sat low but it never seemed to go down. Days stretched on forever. Nights swallowed the world whole but still there was always the distant haze of red light that would not fade.

Nothing grew here anymore, but the spindly clumps of purple leaves that crept across the ground refused to die. They crossed the dry plateau with a sense of purpose and Stan Marsh followed them.

His breath was shallow through his teeth, one hand pulling the scarf more tightly around his nose and mouth, eyes squinting into the brightness above. The rise of the hillside in front of him was both alien and familiar. The grass was gone... the trees... but the ghosts of them sat in the front of his mind and he could hear the whisper of wind through his memory, a familiar voice.

"So you've come."

But those weren't the words he remembered and he squeezed his fingers into his palms as he arched his neck, looking further up the slope where a dark form stood. "I didn't think you'd really be here." Stan's voice was hoarse, sapped by heat and wind and /time/. "I'm surprised he didn't think to look here."

"He has. Many times." The sun was sinking, finally beginning to creep beneath the mountain range, faster and faster. Time running out. "He's come, his men have come and now you've come." The figure exhaled, a sound like a sigh.

Stan took another step, boots planting in the shifting soil, rocks turning beneath his soles as he drove forward, expecting all the while for the man in front of him to disappear at any moment.

It always happened that way. Mirages and dreams and...

...and...

...then the solid warmth of a hand clasping at his gloved palm, squeezing it, pulling him forward. A crushing embrace.

God, he'd waited so long.

"Kyle." He twisted his fingers in the fringe of the redhead's coat, pulling back a half-pace. The light was fading and he could finally _see_. "Shit, dude... you're like a mountain man."

There was a long silence, something unreadable in the Jew's hazel eyes and then he felt something _break_  and Kyle was laughing. And then Stan was laughing too, in panic and relief - _and oh god it was, it really was_  - clutched to Kyle's chest and feeling the prick of the red head's beard rubbing against his cheek.

"You look like hell too, Stan." Kyle's head drew back, breaths still coming in small bursts through his nose, his eyes gleaming in the dying sunset.

Stan could feel the moment it turned, the air still hot but the wind falling still at last and leaving them in a silence that felt absolute. Kyle tensed, head turning and nostrils flaring, teeth bared in the empty air. "Come on." He pulled himself back, moving across the shifting hillside with the ease of a mountain goat. Stan envied his footing as he climbed after him, more a scramble than a dash.

As they crested the hill, Stan found himself skidding downward again, soles scraping through the loose rock and crushing the purple leaves of the plants that aggressively carpeted the lee of the hillside. Kyle was ahead of him, not bothering to catch himself as he slid halfway down the hill and braced to a stop. Turned.

Pulled.

The earth came away in a mass of leaves, swinging open to leave a dark hole in its midst. It looked obscenely large against the fading illumination on the plants around it but as Kyle wriggled into it, Stan was afraid there was no way he was going to fit. Going into the blackness of that tiny opening stabbed him low and cold in his stomach but he pushed past it, gripping the mouth of the hole and sliding inside, feeling the rough length of a nearby rope tangling against his arm and jerking the entrance shut behind him.

There was the faint smell of sulfur as light flickered, faded and finally steadied. Kyle held the lantern up, and gestured Stan further inside what was seemingly a very long tunnel. Had this always been here? Had Kyle dug it somehow? Stan couldn't be sure and there seemed no time to ask as he was finally ushered to a second door. This one opened into a small room.

Here, at last, Kyle eased. He sat on the thin mattress of a very old, very small bed, gesturing Stan to an equally small chair. As Stan settled, the wood creaking protest beneath him, the question he'd known was coming finally hit the air.

"Are you here to kill me, Stan?"

His throat tightened. At the question. At the unsurprised look on the face of the man who had been his best friend growing up. "No."

He hoped Kyle believed him. He needed Kyle to believe him.

Kyle nodded. "So. He wants me alive, then." There was something sharp in his eyes now. "I didn't believe it when I heard it was you."

Stan felt a flicker of heat in his chest, pumping through his veins in a hot rush of anger and shame. His fists clenched. "Goddamn it, Kyle..." His voice stuttered, broke like the wind against the rocks outside. When it returned to him, the words were low and tight. "You know I don't care about Cartman's money."

"Fifty-thousand dollars is a lot of money." Kyle's gaze never wavered. "Men have turned on each other for less."

"It's two-hundred thousand now." Stan corrected automatically, fingers clenching in place for a moment before he gave in to the urge, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it as best he could in his hands. He held it out and Kyle looked at it, tugged it from his grasp. Held it, silent and oddly serene.

"I'd almost turn myself in for that much," His voice was dry and the intervening years rose up between them, made them strangers. Stan couldn't tell if he was serious or not. "But I'm not ready to lie down and die just yet." His eyes crinkled around the edges. "I still have things to do."

Stan wasn't sure if there was something to say to that. He'd been chasing rumours for so long, hunting down the ghosts of his childhood and none had been so persistent - so vital - as this. He remembered the first desperate days _after_ when the world had been dissolved into this whole mess and there had at least been this... this one precious thing.

 

 

 

 

*

Kyle sitting behind the wheel of a truck and the rest of the family piled in, looking ruffled and feral and fey. There was soot on his cheeks, blood on his knuckles. The look in his eyes was wild, as though all the twenty years before this moment had been spent languishing away in a cage and now he was free.

"Get in, Stan."

And Stan wondered how he could. How could he leave it all behind. Sparky and... And how could he leave them?

How could they leave him?

"You can't stay here." Just the right mix of logic and sympathy... but Kyle had always known him so well. Grieve later. If there was a later. There was only a moment to grab a handful of things and then the Marshes - what remained of the Marshes - were tucked in the truck bed amidst the cans and jars and bags and the world they knew was moving away on both sides of the road.

*

 

It was a pin pushed into his memory, a single solid point. The passage of time had never dulled it, even when the world of /before/ had faded into the realm of photographs and childish dreams.

If Kyle remembered that day with the same sort of clarity that Stan did, there was no indication. He was more caught up in the here and now - or perhaps in the future he was spinning out in his mind. He'd always been a thinker. Stan watched the furrow of his brow, the odd mix of annoyance and humour.

"The Wandering Jew?" Kyle's teeth bared in an ironic smile as he crumpled the paper between his fingers, mashing the words, tearing through it. "I bet the fat fuck was feeling pretty clever at that one."

"You have no idea." He wasn't sure how far out the broadcasts went but Eric loved to chew the scenery on them and Kyle - the Wandering Jew - was a constant presence.

  
The amusement faded quickly, died beneath the searching look in Kyle's eyes. Stan could almost imagine it had softened slightly, that the wariness was less now than it had been. He could almost hope...

"Why are you here, Stan?" Kyle's voice was soft; now, finally, showing signs of wear.

"Because-" _Because I had to come. Because I had to see you. Because no amount of time and sand and the general fuckery of the world could drive the memory from my mind. Because it's all unfair and this could be the only good thing left... if it's still there. Because I need you. Because too many reasons and feelings and hurts to begin to name..._

_Because. Oh, because..._

"I need your help, Kyle."

It was the wrong thing to say. It was clear in the flare of Kyle's nostrils, the pull of his muscles as he rose to his feet with a force that nearly knocked over the pitiful excuse for a cot he'd been sitting on. His eyes had a gleam in them... a wild animal brought to bay. The wrong thing to say, yes.

But maybe the right kind of wrong.

"You can stay here tonight." Kyle's voice was rough, the words coming fast and threatening to trip over each other. "There's provisions in those crates. Take all you want."

"Won't you need them?"

"No." Kyle's head was turned away slightly, expression hidden in the shadows. "I won't be coming back here again." One more place to cross off... if it was truth. The red head was already grabbing his bag, snatching up the torn half-length of a metal pipe from where it rested against the wall. His hand was on the door and Stan jolted a little, even having expected it.

"You can't seriously be leaving right now! It's still dark."

"I'm not afraid of the _dark_."

Stan let out a bark of a laugh, high and incredulous. "You know that's not what I-"

"The world is full of monsters," His back was to Stan and if there was a right thing to say it was refusing to come. "At least the ones outside don't pretend to be human anymore." He moved with a speed that Stan envied, manuevering the dark twists of the tunnel outside and disappearing.

The faint click of the tunnel entrance shutting brought Stan back to his senses and he cursed, low and soft. He pulled the secondary door shut, just in case, then sat and stared into the flickering light of the lamp.

Kyle was gone... Months of work and he was gone. Just like that.

But it didn't matter.

Stan had tracked him down once... now, with the scent fresh in his nostrils and the memories stronger in his mind, he had no intention of stopping the hunt.

He was good at this. It was why he worked for Cartman. For others. No hunt had ever mattered more in his life.

Kyle could run. Kyle could hide.

But Stan Marsh always got his prey, in the end.

 

-

 

He'd been dead...

Kenny shifted, feeling a throbbing pain at the ends of his fingers, licking upward along his awakening nerve endings. Pins and needles. Like his entire body had been asleep and was now protesting this wake-up call.

When he tried to move he felt the heavy weight of something pinning him in place. His eyes flew open, the world swimming around him for a few long seconds before he could finally begin to make out some of the details. There were broken beams far above. Through the uneven gaps he could see the stars.

Where was he? Normally, he woke up in his own room...

There was a throbbing at his temples, not pain but a pulsing feeling of heaviness that spread across his skull but mostly seemed to stick near his forehead. He could feel the pounding beat of it against the back of his eyeballs and he groaned. There usually wasn't pain accompanying his resurrections... but everything about this situation was already wrong.

His hands came up, braced against the dry, sun-bleached wood that was pinning him in place. For a moment it didn't seem it would budge, then he felt something give with the creak of protesting wood and a shower of splinters across his face. He let out a sharp breath, planting one elbow against the surface below him and heaving again, the sound of cracking filling his senses and drowning out the whole world.

With his luck he was going to wind up impaling himself by moving this entire pile around and he didn't fucking care. He'd been stabbed, gutted, speared a hundred times and it wasn't as terrifying an option as the possibility of being trapped and dying of thirst or starvation. Quicker was better.

Well... maybe not. But at least it was quicker.

Dust rained down atop him, clinging to his skin and the folds of his clothes, filling his nostrils as he felt the wood strain above him. Then the hollowed out wood finally snapped, the jagged edge tearing through the sleeve of his jacket before tumbling to the ground beside him. The entire precarious pile above him looked like it was going to collapse in on him at any second, so Kenny didn't bother to think. He rolled away from the wall, pushing to his hands and knees and crawling with haste and no dignity. He didn't stop until his hands were clenched in the barren dirt outside, rocks beneath his fingers as he turned his head to look over his shoulder.

From the outside he could see it. What from within had seemed little more than a formless wreck had a familiar shape now. In the cold moonlight the beams and walls shuddered, finally giving up the last of their hold together. Kenny watched with a kind of distant fascination as the house Stuart built finally gave up its long struggle against the elements.

Kenny wasn't sure how long he sat there. It was the pulsing sensation through his arm that finally caught his attention and he looked down at the damp stickiness making his sleeve cling to the skin. He groaned, more in annoyance than in pain, easing out of the jacket and reaching down to tear an uneven strip from the bottom hem of his shirt. Tying a bandage was hard, one-handed, but it was enough to soak up some of the blood flow and hopefully it would stop on its own.

Either way, this seemed like a shit place to be in the middle of the night.

He pushed to his feet, moving toward the dark rise of buildings nearby. Whatever had happened to wreck his own house had done the same to the others nearby. There was something lingering around the edges of his memory and refusing to solidify. Kenny wasn't sure what it was - the last few minutes before he'd died? How had he died, anyway? It was probably the same thing that had happened to these houses - but for the moment at least he didn't care.

Where was everyone? He eased toward a nearby house, ducking through the loosely hanging gate and moving up the walk. The door was swinging open slightly... no car in the driveway. As he eased inside, the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his feet was jarring in the silence, making his heart pound.

A fucking horror movie... that's what this was. Kenny was just waiting for some kind of monster to jump out at him.

Turned out, it was just a mostly empty house. It was a bit more intact than the crap pile he'd grown up in, but there was nothing scary, or even remotely interesting, inside. Kenny raided the closets anyway, only managing to find a few dusty scarves and a moth-eaten jacket. There was no food in the cabinets, none in the pantry, and when he opened the fridge just a crack, the immediate surge of stench and green dust forced him to close it immediately.

Well. Wasn't this fun?

Kenny felt his gorge rising as he made his way back to the door, one arm raised to cover his nose and mouth as though that could help. He was so preoccupied with his watering eyes and wondering if the stuff he'd inhaled was toxic and whether his brain was going to ooze out through his nose that he didn't notice the groan of protesting wood.  
He collided headlong with the person attempting to enter, the force of his retreat knocking them flat on their back. Kenny caught himself on the edge of the door, ignoring the sudden - and superstitious - tremors in his body. Fuck. Just... fuck. That was really the only word.

Whoever it was seemed only vaguely familiar. Brown hair, evident even in the moonlight. Male, probably. They were flopped on the ground looking more than a little shell-shocked.

Not some kind of demon or serial killer, by the look of stupid surprise on their face.

"Sorry." Kenny moved forward, down the slight step to the sidewalk, holding out his hand to help the person up. He felt the brush of a hesitant hand against his and let his fingers curl into a firm grip, pulling the stranger to their feet.

"It's okay," the guy was saying, looking jittery and distracted, darting a glance around like he was expecting something else to jump out at him. "I was just worried... y'know. You can't be too careful..."

"Yeah." The blonde agreed, not sure of what he was even talking about. But yeah, it was good to be careful. You learned that when you were... well... accident prone.

The man was settling a little, brushing himself off. He seemed a bit more at ease now and Kenny figured it was just that he was glad to have someone else around. "I didn't expect to see anyone. You're not a raider are you?" He seemed suspicious for a moment. "You're not in the colours..." Shaking his head, he gave a dismissive wave of the hand."Never mind. Did you find food?" He was looking at what Kenny was carrying and the blonde drew it to his chest instinctively, even if it wasn't food. "Hey man, I don't want your stuff," the guy waved his hands again. "I don't care about that crap-" He looked up, meeting Kenny's gaze directly. His expression was mildly amused and then it froze, twisting into shock.

Shock bled into fear. Terror, even. The man was backing away, lips twisted and teeth bared like a frightened animal. It was such a swift change that Kenny wasn't even sure how to react.

"You okay?" He asked, hand reaching out in reassurance.

"Monster." The word came out, low and rasping, pitching higher the second time. " **Monster**!" And before Kenny could piece together the words to ask what the hell the guy was talking about, he was already across the yard, squeezing through the broken slats of the fence and disappearing into the darkness. The sound of footfalls against the asphalt echoed mockingly until those too fell silent in the distance.

 

Kenny wasn't sure why he followed.

Maybe it was because he hadn't seen anyone else. Maybe it was just because there was no other damn way to go. The road stretched far to the corner of town, moving away from the weird red glow on the other side of the horizon. By the time he passed the old school building he'd already lost track of the guy he'd been following. Plowing off the road and across the long stretch of now abandoned schoolyard, he found himself heading toward the moon that was sinking in the distance.

It probably wasn't the right way but it was a way.

He passed by the tetherball poles that stood jutting skyward despite the ravages of time. One of them still somehow had a deflated ball swinging loosely in the breeze. Beyond these there was the rusted skeleton of the jungle gym.

There was a faint sound on the air, a metallic rasp. It was strangely familiar...

Kenny eased around the edge of the jungle gym, eyes narrowing as he saw something. He would have thought he was imagining it... a solid form out by the remnants of the swing set... but as he drew closer he could definitely make out what appeared to be a human. Or something like a human, at least. He didn't think it was the man who'd screamed and run off but he shifted his approach, trying to move more quietly, just in case.

"I know you're there." A voice called out, low and soft.

Kenny froze where he stood, fingers clenching into his palms so hard that his nails bit into the skin. He wasn't sure if he should respond or not, baring his teeth as he finally took another step, closing the distance now that he didn't have the advantage of surprise.

"You don't have to be afraid."

He scowled at the very thought, even though he'd been entertaining all kinds of ideas about how this unexpected person might react to him. If the other guy had screamed and run away, there was no guarantee that this one would be any different. Maybe he'd even have more initiative and try to attack instead.

But still, he came closer, walking the long way around the swing set and pausing as they were both in visual range. The other man was sitting on one of the old swings, despite the rust and the precariousness of the worn metal. He was clad in loose layers, all covered with a long cloak and a hood pulled down across his eyes, hiding most of his face. His toes were braced against the ground, pushing him in a slight rocking motion. He only stopped as Kenny drew to the edge of the former sandbox.

Long legs unfolded, the stranger rising to his feet and taking a step forward. The distance between them closed a little more and Kenny tensed, fingers twitching.

No scream though. No weapon. Just a soft laugh, a sound of pleased surprise that had no business in an abandoned playground. In a dead town. "I didn't expect to see you again." The tone was warm and he still couldn't place it. "Hi, Kenny."

The use of his name sent a jolt through him and he was straining to see more, to identify the person. He wanted to know. He needed to know.

"Who are you?" There was something familiar about the man and he wasn't sure exactly what it was. But this guy wasn't running away from him, at least, so he might find a few answers here.

The question earned another soft laugh, one hand coming up and gripping the edge of the dusty hood, pulling it back to expose ruffled blonde hair falling across eyes that were an impossible shade of lavender blue. "You don't remember me." He sounded more amused than offended by this, his bright smile jarring among the bleakness of their surroundings. "We've both been away a while, so I suppose it's not a surprise."

Away? Away where?

"Should I do a twirl? Would that help?"

And it did help. Immediately.

Away, yeah. A few thousand light years away. Fuck.

"Bradley." His voice was low and dry. Oh yes. He remembered now. "Don't do that."

He did it anyway, the loose folds of his pale robe moving around him as he turned with surprising ease for someone so swathed in clothing. As his hair settled again, the blonde strands almost covering his eyes, he flashed a heedless grin. Just like that, he was ten years old and running around in ridiculous costumes. It was nice to know that some things didn't change.

Just the whole damn world, apparently.

"Why are you here?" It was the question Kenny wanted to ask, so he was surprised to hear the words from Bradley's lips. There was something keen behind the violet-tinted blue of the other man's eyes, something he'd never seen in Bradley when the two of them had been children. So. Perhaps there had been changes here too. ..

"I don't know." He laughed aloud at the pathos of it all, because fuck, it was the stupidest thing and yet it was true. "I just am." Just a lame excuse for Dorothy and this place... this ghost town... it wasn't fucking South Park anymore. He didn't know what anything was anymore.

A shadow crossed over Bradley's features for a moment, so fast that Kenny almost missed it. He could have convinced himself it wasn't there at all if it hadn't settled something heavy in the pit of his stomach. Foreboding. Bradley's look was bright again as he spoke. "Nobody ever /just is/. You're here for a reason, mark my words."

Kenny's voice was dry. "And you're going to tell me what _reason_ that is?"

"No." Brad's lips twisted a little, a wry smile. "I don't know that kind of stuff. You'll have to figure it out for yourself." The wind whistled through the chinks in the swing's metal chain, pushing it to bump against the back of Bradley's legs.

Then what good are you? Kenny wanted to scream at him but it was no use. There were answers but he wasn't going to be getting them. All of his life had been the same bullshit. Questions but no answers. The whole damn world seemed to have some use for him and no inclination to share what it was. Why should Bradley be any different? Why should /anything/ be any different.

"Then I suppose you're going to leave me to it?" His voice was a low rasp, annoyance and a hint of mockery. "Why did you even talk to me then?"

There was a pause. A bemused little smile. "Maybe that's my destiny?" Light words. Fragile words. "Seriously, Kenny." The use of his given name made both of them pause for a moment. "I didn't come here to find you. The fact that we ran into each other here probably means something, don't you think?"

"Fuck destiny." Kenny's lips curled. He was done with it. The end of the world meant there was time to figure out his way around a new one. He could make a new place for himself. It didn't have to be the same as before.

Was that disappointment in Bradley's eyes? Pity? Something else? Kenny didn't care. Fuck it. Fuck them all.

"Where will you go now?" The other man's voice was soft, almost snatched away by the breeze.

Kenny gestured wide at nothing. Beyond the wild motion of his arm was an expanse of desolate ground that looked just like everything else. But he'd chosen there and there he'd go, if only to be contrary. It was away from the town, away from the school, away from everything. Just... away.

He half expected Bradley to either laugh or offer to come with him. He'd followed once before on that fateful day against the dark lord Cthulhu. It had been insanity and it hadn't mattered then. So he expected the words to come and was somehow disappointed at their lack. Perhaps it was simply that the other man was the only familiar thing right now, or just a need to have someone else around so he didn't get too fucking lonely. He'd put up with worse company before.

"There's an encampment that way." Bradley's eyes followed the direction Kenny had pointed in. "Don't go there at night."

Monsters in the dark. Yeah. He got it. The man he'd talked to earlier had run screaming. No telling what he might have done if he'd been in possession of a weapon... and his wits. "I'll keep that in mind-" he began, only to have the words cut off short as a bundle was thrust into his hands. He stared down at it, the dusky off-white fabric. it took him a moment to realise it was Bradley's hooded cloak.

"Why-" When he raised his head to ask, Bradley was halfway across the length of the playground, picking his way meticulously toward the abandoned buildings and the rapidly brightening sky in the east. He might have heard Kenny's words because he paused, turned to look over his shoulder. With the sky turning blue behind him, he was almost a silhouette, his expression impossible to see. He was making some gesture.

"Kenny!" Bradley called out, moving his arm, holding something up in his hand. "Here! You'll need these!" A flick of his wrist and something was moving through the air, end over end. Light glinted on it from the sun peeking over the lowest dip in the mountains.

He reached out, more from instinct than anything and caught the small object. He brushed his thumb across it, brows furrowing. He knew what he was holding before he opened his fingers.

Sunglasses.

What the fuck?

When Kenny raised his head again to ask Bradley what the hell he needed these for, the other man was already gone.

The sun was beginning to rise, now pulling up over the mountains and turning the sun-baked ground orange. Kenny couldn't help but flinch because it was already pretty damn bright. He tugged the cloak across his shoulders, ignoring the slight throb of pain in his arm at the motion. Pulling the hood down was almost comforting in its familiarity.

With one last searching look toward the horizon, Kenny flicked the sunglasses open with a quick motion of his wrist, slipping them on before putting the sunrise to his back and heading West.

 

-

 

Craig's hands were red. His arms were red to the elbow. Red streaks scattered across his cheeks, dark and jagged. The earth beneath him was red.  
His shovel twisted on the hard packed ground, sending another flurry of dirt and dust upward on the air. There was the taste of iron on his tongue. The metallic scent was strong on the air whenever he overturned another shovelful of dirt.

He planted the spade in the ground, leaning on the handle for a moment. The sun was still sitting low, just above the mountains to the east, and the air was already starting to warm. No clouds. Another day without rain, acidic or otherwise. Craig let out a slow breath, reaching into the pouch at his belt, scattering a handful of hard-won seeds onto the ground.

There seemed little point to this sometimes... scraping by day to day.

As he walked down the line of overturned soil, continuing to spread the seeds, he felt the gnawing of hunger in his belly. He ignored it. He'd grown too used to ignoring it by now... too used to ignoring a lot of things. Every seed that hit the red soil beneath his feet was a possibility of more. Far too many had proven useless, empty and meaningless.

The plants struggled to survive in the thick Colorado clay and Craig could only put them in the ground and hope.

Fucking hope. It was harder than he thought. But he'd never had to hope before. He'd never had to even really think before. The world had been a static thing before. Everything in its place. Everything normal. Ordinary.

Perfect, he would have said.

His body ached as he straightened up, the air already hot, and somehow far too still. It would be near-unbearable soon enough and he bit back a wince as he covered the last of the seeds with a thin layer of soil. They needed water.

He had the buckets slung across his shoulders, shovel braced firmly in his hand as he made his way toward the pump. The creak of the windvane perched high on a pole was the only sound other than his dusty footsteps. The world was a lot quieter now. Craig wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Most days he could have gone either way.

Quiet. Peaceful. Peaceful like death, yeah.

Except...

There was a jangling on the air, the sound of pieces of metal striking each other. It took Craig a few seconds to realise what it was. The perimeter alarm. They'd put it in place so long ago and it was set off so rarely that he barely knew how to react to it. In the very rare instances in the past when it had sounded off it had usually been an animal.

Fresh meat, possibly?

Craig moved swiftly, loosing his grip on the handle of the shovel and letting it fall aside as he followed the sound toward the other side of the house. Behind him, the buckets hit the ground and rolled across the red earth, clanging low and hollow. He drew up short at the sight of people on the other side of their makeshift fence. One of them was struggling to climb over a low area, the spot where the wire was set up. They all froze as they saw him, eyes wide. They were dusty, draggled. Lost.

He knew them.

He vaguely recalled kids he'd gone to school with... it seemed forever ago. Their names had been driven from his mind by the years and the struggle to survive. Names were unimportant here. The past was unimportant.

"What are you doing here?" His voice came out more harsh than intended, fingers clenched into his palms, wariness in every inch of his long frame.

The three of them looked at each other, the dark-haired young man who'd been attempting to scale the perimeter paused in the midst of this motion. He eyed Craig cautiously before allowing his weight to shift forward, landing on the inside of the fence. His companions eased in, shuffling forward half-step by half-step.

Craig was taller than two of them. Even as thin as he was, he was still in better shape. They'd probably spent weeks travelling with little in the way of food, water or shelter. He could almost feel bad for them.

They'd been lucky...

 

 

 

 

*

Craig should have known better the moment they went off the highway. There was no exit... not exactly. They skewed off the low shoulder through clumps of grass and weeds that rose up around the tires. Tweek's small sounds of nervousness reverberated in the contained space, his shoulder betraying slight quivers that were still somewhat less than they had been in his youth. Craig almost said something. Almost.

But Richard Tweak was the one behind the wheel and his face was blissfully serene and Craig had a sudden intense feeling that if he said anything - if he reached out and touched the man - that he would somehow dissolve away like the lingering figment of a dream.

It was more likely that he'd go off on some long too-calm diatribe about coffee or something that was somehow metaphorically related to coffee, but Craig wasn't sure that was any better.

He kept his tongue until their drive down a faint dirt road took them around to the far side, out past a gate and a fence made of broken, sun-baked wood and then a few minutes later, past a second gate made of wrought iron that looked almost as battered but stood up to the ravages of time a bit better. Neither gate made Craig feel particularly more comfortable or less like Tweek's father had decided to drive him all the way out here to murder him.

The house was there, as promised. He'd almost decided it was nothing but a figment of Richard Tweak's imagination. But it rose before them. Not huge, not new, but it was standing and, more than that, it was intact and solid enough to withstand a few more years.

"Why-" Craig began, the words cut off as Richard Tweak brought the car to a halt, tires groaning at the effort. The stop jarred Craig enough that the words jostled free and he could only step outside as Tweek's father had already done, standing and looking at the dreary but passable excuse for a house.

"W-when did we get - urgh - **THIS** , Dad?" Tweek asked, hands wringing in the front of his shirt - uncertainty but not fear, exactly.

Richard Tweak waved a dismissive hand at the question. Unimportant. "I've been keeping it for you." He had to be talking to Tweak but he looked back and forth between his son and Craig as he spoke. "It's yours, once you're both 18. There's no mortgage. No rent."

No title. No record that it had ever been built, as Craig would later learn.

But it was free. He'd take anything free he could get.

...Even if it was a run-down house half-hidden in the shadow of the mountains with far too many weeds and not nearly enough modern conveniences. At least it was far away from most of the people he couldn't stand.

"What's the catch?" He asked, his voice dry. Indifferent.

Because there was always a catch. Somewhere, always a catch.

Mr. Tweak looked at Craig, almost ignoring the presence of his own son as he came around the front of the car toward the tall youth. "The catch." Richard Tweak repeated, his voice soft and almost snatched away on the air. "You can't sell it. Not ever."

It had crossed his mind for a moment, though the thought had been fleeting. There wasn't liable to be much to gain from this place. The price of the land, maybe.

The direness of the man's words beneath the level tone was what caught Craig's attention. He didn't know why.

But he didn't need to know why.

"No selling." He said in easy agreement, his own tone nearly as dry. "Got it."

"Can we perform an exorcism?" He asked next.

It was a joke.

"There are no ghosts here. Yet." He hoped Richard Tweak's answer was also a joke.

_A stupid, creepy joke._

His usual cool indifference was having a hard time in the face of the older man's low key, but oddly piercing gaze. He was waiting for some reaction, as far as Craig could tell, and just _what_  it might be wasn't clear. Craig took a shot in the dark. "Thanks."

The single word of gratitude seemed to flip a switch. Richard Tweak fixed his too-calm smile on the two teens and gestured them toward the building, striding forward to lead the way as he pointed out some of the features. Craig listened with half an ear, lengthening his stride only to keep pace with Tweek. They walked side by side, and as the blonde's natural paranoia seemed to be increasing with every unnecessary detail, Craig reached one hand over - a silent motion - twining his fingers with Tweek's.

Words rattled from Richard Tweak's mouth as they walked but they flew past. They never truly sank in -

_He would remember them, years later, remember and wish he'd paid more attention, listened more closely. There had been weight in those words... and a dire promise that had escaped his willful - and bored - teenage ears_

\- Craig was too busy looking at the building, at the small details and wondering when he'd found himself mired so deep in things that he was looking forward to inheriting this potential death trap.

 _It's free._ He reminded himself. _Free is good._

_This is a good thing._

The keys were cold, pressed into his palm and into his pocket where they would eventually find their way to the bottom of a drawer. More important than those little bits of metal was what they signified. A different kind of freedom. 

"Thanks."

He said the word to Tweek's dad. Said it, and meant it. Ghosts and all.

 

*

 

Lucky. Yeah.

He didn't want to believe that somehow Richard Tweak had known something like this would happen; wasn't sure he could have believed it - _and if he was honest with himself, perhaps he already did_ \- but whether it was coincidence or not, it was theirs. They'd been outfitted well for the apocalypse.

And there had been others - early on especially - others who had wanted what they had. The security and the base piece of earth that was Craig's right, burned into his palm in the shape of cold metal. The knowledge quelled most of his sympathy. "You're trespassing." The words came, low and rough.

Dangerous words.

The man already on Craig's side of the fence hesitated, looking at him with a mixture of wariness and interest. Sizing him up.

He was outnumbered by this group, but that didn't mean he was guaranteed to lose. His hand clenched at empty air, missing the solid weight of the shovel in his grasp. Perhaps he had time to fetch it...

There was that look on their faces though, the look that told him that they'd already sized him up and found him, if not wanting, then at least vulnerable. The second member of their trio was already moving to clamber over the wire of the fence, hissing pain and anger as the barbs dug past the thin layer of clothing and into his leg.

"Don't." Craig's voice was a rasp on the air, low and harsh. He could see the flicker of hesitation, and the stronger desperation overriding it. They wanted the food that the fence and house promised was there, the stores that had carried Craig and Tweek through the lean aftermath.

The one already inside the fence was looking bolder, moving toward Craig with a stiff-legged walk that was attempting to be a strut. Craig's fingers clenched against the air and he glanced behind him again at the metal buckets gleaming a few steps back. They'd make poor bludgeons but without the shovel held at the ready he had little other possible recourse.

"Look, guy," The intruder was saying, "We don't want to hurt you. Just give us your food and water and we'll leave." They both knew it was unlikely. There was benefit to staying here, even if they had to turn the previous occupants out to do so. Besides, he wasn't backing down, not even as the second man finally managed to get himself untangled from the barbed wire and came in, lower and faster than the first, more riled and less willing to mouth pretty words. Craig barely stepped back in time to avoid the first swing.

The second contacted low in his gut and drew a choked noise from his lips. His own hand came down on top of the attacker's head, the side of his fist smacking against the top of the man's skull with a force they both felt to the bone.

He probably could have beaten this guy in a fair fight. He could sense both the weakness and the desperation that was lending his attacker strength. From the corner of his eye, he could already catch the first intruder manuevering to come in to his side...

There was a click on the air, impossibly loud and Craig felt the sound jolt through him like a physical force, his motions drawing short. The others heard it too and they froze in place.

Craig turned to look, for some reason surprised to see Tweek standing just outside the door of their house, a shotgun held braced in his hands. His eyes narrowed as he took a step toward them. The intruders hesitated again at that, not certain whether the blond was serious in his threat.

"G-get out." Tweek hissed, low and dangerous. "J-just get out!"

"Now wait - wait, just a moment!" The man who'd been tangling with Craig let out a sharp breath. "We just want some food... some water." There was blood on his knuckles, Craig's still shirt gripped in his clenched fingers. The man was so close to him that he felt the reverberation of the gun as it went off, even before the crack of it rose on the air. The sound of the intruder's yelp followed, a stricken noise, and the man crumpled in front of him, writhing on the ground, hands clutching at his knee. From the sight of the exploded flesh and the blood gushing between his fingers, Tweek's shot had just shattered the kneecap.

Craig would have been a little more sympathetic if the man hadn't been trying to beat the crap out of him a few seconds ago.

Tweek was moving again, advancing toward the remaining two. The one still on the other side of the fence was already scrambling away, her path unblocked as she ran across the dusty expanse in front of their makeshift farm with all the dignity of a terrified rabbit. The uninjured man was attempting to climb back over the gate, the barbs on the wire tearing into his palms and making them slick with blood.

"Don't shoot me!" he yelped as Tweek drew close, but luckily for him, Tweek's attention was focused on the poor unfortunate he'd already blasted. His greenish eyes were distant, his expression blank as he raised his foot and brought it down on the injured man's leg, drawing forth another squall of agony.

"Leave." He intoned, a sound that was almost lost to the stillness of the air and the panicked screams of the would-be intruders. "Don't. Come. Back." Every word was punctuated by another push of his heel against the wound, another helpless whimper, and then Tweek was stepping back and the freed man was crawling awkwardly toward the fence, squeezing his body beneath the lowest segment of wire and tearing away a fair bit more clothing and flesh in the process. His dark-haired companion had barely managed to clear the top of the wire fencing but turned long enough to grab his friend by the wrists and drag him forward.

Tweek wasn't even looking at them, back turned away and the gun still held easily in his hands as the two terrified men staggered and limped away in the general direction their more fortunate companion had already taken. Craig watched, silently, until they were specks in the distance, only then turning to the blonde.

His hand brushed Tweek's upper arm and felt the tenseness there, the jerk of muscles beneath his touch. The blank expression lingered a few moments longer, then Tweek's pale eyes turned to him. They showed more emotion than the expression on his face, a mix of fear, anger and... relief perhaps.

"It's okay." Craig wasn't sure if he was reassuring Tweek or himself more. "I don't think they're coming back." He didn't think anything could persuade them to come anywhere near the house again, starving or not.

"If they do..." Tweek's tone was soft, calm... almost sedate in a way that sent cold shivers up Craig's spine. "I'll kill them."

And Craig believed it.

His hands were a bit unsteady as he retrieved the buckets and the shovel, forcing him to grip them until the metal bit into his palms. "I need to water the seeds before the sun gets too high..." He felt like he was talking to himself, but he needed to drive the quiet of Tweek's assertion away.

_There are times you scare me... more than anything else this screwed up world throws at us._

Tweek's eyes went to him, as if he'd read the thought and then he gave Craig a small smile. "I - urk- I know." For a moment, Craig wasn't sure whether he was responding to the spoken question or the silent one. "I-I can help. We'll get it done - urk - faster."

He took two of the buckets from Craig and they kept pace as they went around to the other side of the house where the water pump was. It all felt normal... but the splash of bright red on dull red - blood on earth - was still far too visible.

It felt like a sign. Of what, he wasn't sure.

A change of some kind. A shift.

Then he almost ran into Tweek who had stopped in front of him and was staring up and beyond the roof of the house, up above the crest of the mountains to their east... toward the center of this burning hell they now occupied.

"Tweek?"

"Just a moment..." Tweek's back was to him, the bright blonde of his hair touched pink by the reddish light still far in the distance. Was it brighter than it had been before? "Just a little longer now..."

Craig swallowed. Lowered his buckets to the hard packed earth. Curled his arm around Tweek's middle, holding without pulling.

Stared into the sun.

Just for a moment...

 

-

 

-To be continued-


End file.
